


when I say shotgun, you say

by coldbones



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Shotgunning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 16:12:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldbones/pseuds/coldbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He liked Derek high. A kite-level Derek was a settled Derek, and he could’ve scratched that built belly and coo’d if he didn’t fear the life of his wrist up against those teeth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when I say shotgun, you say

**Author's Note:**

> I always felt like the feeling you get when you post a fic somewhere, in a different fandom, for the first time - would be a little like popping a stiffy your first time: completely awkward, leaving you with no idea what to do or say, and trying to cross your legs and feign the fact that no, you definitely are not sporting a boner. Granted; this will never happen to me, so this is all speculation, and nervous ramble. Originally written for a sweetheart, because she was pretty out of her tree at the time and why not feed the need? I cleaned it up since then, and it brings us to here. (This is chihuahua level fear. Seriously. There could be some pee-action happening. Except not really, I promise, and enjoy if you can.)

He felt impossibly hot.

Except for his toes. _Those are cold_ , he thought, and wiggled them. Only half of them corresponded with the signals his brain send and - how does that even work? He alternated in curling them, inclining his head in Derek's direction. Pot didn't work on werewolves as well as it did on humans. Not by far. They had shoved a towel up against the door to keep the room condensed in smoke, and it filtered through slowly, brushing up against his window with no escape in sight. _Ayeee_ , he thought, _inebriate me more!_ And then promptly regret the thought because it was kind of lame.

But, oh. Yeah. Derek. He dropped his gaze to the wolf, and it was red that he met. Derek had to be _saturated_ for it to work. Fumes were a little easier to work with than alcohol. The body didn't flush it as fast; since it sunk through skin and sat on clothes and swallowed up all your senses. Stiles could taste the sweetness of it on his tongue.

But that also could have been from the blunt.

"They'll sing a song about you," he told Derek, and offered him the burning thin-stick. Derek didn’t fumble like Stiles had hoped; he wanted to see him choke in all ways, because he was an asshole, but at the same time - he was glad because that meant he wouldn’t have a werewolf greening out on him. He liked Derek high. A kite-level Derek was a settled Derek, and he could’ve scratched that built belly and coo’d if he didn’t fear the life of his wrist up against those teeth. "They'll call it: Derek, The Red-Eyed Werewolf."

Derek growled, but it sounded rough and warbly.

"Not this again." But he didn't exactly negate it; Stiles was pretty sure he was laughing, actually. (But he is also pretty sure the world is fucking awesome and it actually is not so it was definitely the weed.)

"No, seriously," he continued, shifting and watching Derek's mouth. It cinched over the end of the joint, his fingers pinched delicately - and oh, the fucker, he was cheating, using his claws. Stiles could tell the moment he inhaled: the way his nostrils flared and his eyelids drooped just a little. 

Plus, the cherry burned.

"It'll be so catchy. You'll be the next Gangnam Style." He paused, as Derek pulled the joint away so he could lean his head back against Stiles' bed. His throat felt tense so he didn't swallow. "Shit. We'll need to make up a dance."

Derek made a noise, like he wanted to laugh, or scoff, but his chest was occupied. And then the asshole opened his mouth, and his exhale crawled out. It seeped for the ceiling, a winding tendril, and it was a slow expose of how big Derek's lungs were. 

Stiles had no idea smoking could be so fucking attractive (and he was a fan of Paul Newman. Is. Was. Whatever; he's dead now, it's a past-term).

"I'm not dancing," Derek claimed, sounding strained, and he exhaled the rest of it in a rush. His eyes were red, and not just because 'He's The Alpha, Stiles, so you better do as I say before I piss all over your room like the bitch I am'. 

Stiles' words, not Derek's.

"You'd make a buck or three-mil," he mumbled, like that'd convince Derek otherwise.

"Not interested." Derek let out a secondary breath, as if to confirm everything was out. After an idle moment, Stiles stretched his arm out to take the doobie back from him, but Derek just lifted his arm, holding it out of reach.

Stiles frowned.

"Excuse you."

Derek arched his brow, and amusement was written in every little fucking strand of it. 

"Have you ever done a shot-gun?" he asked, turning his head to face Stiles the best he could; as if the feat was impossible. His head kept nodding up and down, like it was on a jerky yo-yo, and Stiles wanted to reach out and make it stop. 

"Uh, that sounds dangerous, so I'm gonna go with no... What is it with you, man? Danger-magnet. Stranger Danger. Wait, no, that's - yeah, wrong thing," Stiles waved his hand, but Derek wasn't swayed. 

"You've never shotgunned?" 

Stiles shook his head, because hey, he thought he was pretty clear the first time.

Derek watched him for a long moment, letting the joint burn away until it was near his fingers, the threatening lick of the burner there and real. He had long fingers, and calloused too, Stiles could tell. He was that kind of guy. He wanted to reach out, touch, and never stop. No, even better; he wanted it from Derek. From Derek to be unable to resist the whole factor of touching - and hey, the guy was a werewolf, he kind of ran on pack touching, didn't he?

The proof was in the way Derek's leg kept pressing harder and harder into his.

He blinked, and suddenly, Derek was closer. His mouth was curled into a smile, or maybe a smirk - Stiles couldn't really be bothered to differentiate the two at the moment there-of. But he kept coming closer until his breath fanned across Stiles cheek when he turned his head, his chest rising fast and falling slow. Just this side of nervous. Derek turned his head, too, but to hall off the fading joint. It burned, and more smoke tendrils dancing ceiling-ward.

"...what are you doing?" Stiles asked, rolling his head in a full circle before letting it plop back against the bed, closest to Derek. Derek didn't speak.

Instead, he pressed his mouth to Stiles. 

And then, oh fuck shit, he was - that was his tongue, licking them open to each other, and Stiles' teeth didn't need to be told. Derek shifted himself just enough for a better seal, and then he was exhaling heavily into Stiles' mouth.

It took him off guard, and so he snorted, and Derek pulled away. Into play came a coughing fit that Stiles couldn't shake, eyes squinted closed and a wrist covering the worst of it so he didn't spray it all over Derek's face like some rude-ass motherfucker that he definitely was not. 

"Easy," Derek murmured, and his hand stroked over Stiles' (which he tried not to think too much into, because it was just touch, pack touched, it was just -)

"Whoa, that was a kiss, are we doing the kissing thing now - is that a thing that’s happening?!" He tried to flail how much of a deal this was (read: a pretty frickin' big one) with his hand, but that just wasn't happening.

Derek chuckled and shook his head. 

Stiles liked him high, he decided. He was much more friendly. Less inclined to introduce Stiles to the wall. With his face.

"No. You have to relax for it to work, though. Keep your mouth open this time." Oh. So, no-homo then? Wary, Stiles opened his mouth. "Not like that, that's too much." He closed it a little. "Good." And then Derek was leaning in again, and Stiles hadn't even noticed him taking a puff.

This time, he could feel it. 

It curled past his teeth and stroked along the roof of his mouth in a lazy crawl. He could feel the warmth radiating from Derek's mouth, the wet of it - and it felt like his heart was everywhere. It had burst from his chest in sections, dragging itself all over - to his fingers, his toes, his head, even his freakin' nose. Derek was still pushing it all to him, and he was inhaling as fast as his lungs could comply, but it was a war of focus.

On one hand - hey, weed.

On the other, Derek was a schmorgasboard of sensation and it definitely wasn't an understatement. His mouth was seamless, a moist little place Stiles wanted to explore. But it clearly wasn't his first rodeo, and he couldn't help but think; but wonder: 

over how many times Derek had done this, and to who.

It was kind of weird, imagining Derek doing this. Then again, Derek had been young (well, young _er_ ) once, too. He must’ve had curiosities. Temptations. Those regular teenage-hormone-driven things. The urge to merge and be a delinquent, all at the same time. Oh, such a life. That - Stiles was not experiencing.

Except maybe a little.

(Very little. Like, microscopic. Lucky, by the skin of his teeth!)

There was a resonating of noise, and it was all the pounding of his heart. It clawed up his rib cage, and to silence it, he leaned in close, stifling it against Derek's mouth. Derek made a noise, and Stiles quickly exhaled through his nose. 

"That's," he said sometime later, that felt like years, but was something more closer to a minute, "a shot-gun."

"Mhm." Stiles agreed, like it hadn't been his first time. His tongue found his lower lip first, and brought it under the pressure of his teeth. Derek watched him, eyes resuming their half-hooded state but no less alert. His conscious drifted; Derek’s hand was hooked around his knee, his side warm into Stiles’ own, his breath fanning warm against his neck and shoulder - was he that close?

“Can we do it again?” He felt light; like he could hover. The room was still so smokey. Elation was a good sensation.

Derek lifted his hand to show him the dredges of the blunt, not worth anything now; just a smoking filter. 

“It’s done.” He shrugged, and Stiles’ eyes shifted away then back.

“...can we do it again?” He licked his lips, hooked his tongue over the top row of his teeth. He could taste weed again, but more than that; the breath Derek had left, too. Or maybe that was wistful thinking.

Definitely wistful.

But Derek grinned, slow, and he shifted like he meant to get a little closer.

“Yeah.”

And then he palmed his cock through his jeans, a steady wall of _touch_ , and Stiles was definitely on-board for more of this shot-gunning business (besides; it sounded less deadly than the usual kind they had to put up with, and a lot more sexy, so, boo-yeah).


End file.
